


An Ounce of Silk, a Pound of Blood

by crimson_violet



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Impact Play, Light Dom/sub, Non-Sexual Kink, Regency, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27164104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimson_violet/pseuds/crimson_violet
Summary: Lady Averly receives an unexpected interruption. She makes the best of it.Written for Regency Femdom Week
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Regency Femdom Week 2020





	An Ounce of Silk, a Pound of Blood

She pulls off her shoes and dress as quickly as she can without actually ruining them, and slips gratefully into her much more comfortable trousers and riding boots. She is about to finish up re-lacing her corset (snug enough to hold her in place and smooth everything out, but not constrictingly tight) and reach for a shirt when she hears the door click open behind her. Turning smartly on her heel, she whirls around to find herself eye-to-eye with--

"Lord Ashencourt! I thought you'd left after tea."

"Oh, dear. Lady Averly, I am _so_ sorry! I meant to leave, you see, but then I-- well. I-I-I-- had sort of an-- well. And I was looking for the washroom, you see."

She squints closer at him, and can see that he's somehow managed to spill tea down his front. Possibly some jam as well. And she realizes that they aren't eye-to-eye so much as, well, he seems terribly distracted by the sight of her trousers. She can't really blame him, to be honest. Young ladies wearing trousers can be very distracting. Something must be done about where his gaze is landing, however. 

She says "Sir, if you don't avert your eyes immediately I'm afraid this situation will be very inappropriate indeed."

She notes the blush rising in his cheeks, and the soft but swift intake of breath that he makes as he quickly turns his head to the side and fixes his eyes on the wall. She updates her mental model of him accordingly, and smiles. A smile that he can hear but no longer see.

"Well," she says coolly. "You've made _quite_ a mess of yourself, haven't you? Look at you, why you aren't even fit to tread upon!"

"L-Lady Averly, please--" he stammers out before trailing off. She notes the way his face colors further and his eyes widen, the way his hands shake ever so slightly when she speaks. The way his breath becomes increasingly rapid. She updates her mental model of him again, before deciding to just discard the whole thing entirely. She may as well just re-do the whole thing from scratch at this rate.

" _Well_ ," she says, "perhaps you _are_ fit to tread upon. At the least."

It seems that he actually _stops_ breathing on hearing this, and she waits for the span of a few heartbeats before she hears him utter " _Oh_ ," in the softest voice she's ever heard.

Oh.

_Well_.

He's perfect.

She continues in a softer voice.

"If you feel you are worthy of that, you will wish to keep quiet. We wouldn't want my household staff to overhear."

"Oh. _Yes_ , Lady Averly" he says, barely a whisper. She smiles.

She steps around him and snaps the door shut, watching as he jumps a little at the noise, but keeps his eyes fixed on the wall. Moving behind him, she gives the soft mossy green ribbon that ties back his hair a gentle pull, and freeing waves of chestnut hair to tumble onto his shoulders. He shivers, from the feeling of his hair coming undone, from the thought of her hand being so terribly close but not touching. She uses the ribbon to tie back her own hair.

"Lie down," she instructs. "And keep your eyes averted. Wrists level with your head, if you please." Lord Ashencourt hastens to comply.

She presses the heel of one well-shod foot into his chest, gently but firmly. She can feel the heat of his body through the sole of her boot, and she can feel his heart pounding rapidly. She holds him there for the space of a few breaths, before digging the heel of her boot in a bit more sharply. His breath hitches wonderfully at that, and she decides that he looks _much_ more agreeable on the ground than anywhere else.

"I haven't quite broken these boots in yet. But I suppose you might help with that?" she says.

"Oh," he says squirming a bit under her boot, "Lady Averly, _can_ I?"

He sounds damnably imploring, and she digs her heel in just a touch harder, drawing a sharp gasp from him before stepping back. She regards him. The fine dove-gray fabric of his morning coat is marred not just with a tea stain, but now with the hint of dirt that had graced the bottom of her shoe. She nudges him hard in the side with the toe of her boot, and hears him press his hand to his mouth to muffle an _actual_ moan. Her heart races for a moment and her blood runs hot before she collects herself enough to snap at him.

"Have you forgotten yourself sir, or did I not tell you to stay quiet!"

He nods vigorously and his hand remains pressed to his lips.

Well then.

She aims a firmer kick at his side again, and on receiving a positive response, one firmer still to his upper leg. And then another, and another, and another. She peppers his body with blows, hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to break, but hopefully hard enough to leave a mark. She likes the idea of that. It's obvious he's trying not to make any noise at all, but he is most definitely failing, and the noises that are escaping him are rather delightful indeed. Turning his soft whimper into a ragged gasp is terribly, terribly easy to do with a swift and sharp kick. Turning it back into the whimper takes a touch more doing, but she finds she can do it with a soft tread and firm pressure. She kicks at him and treads on him until his breath comes fast and hard and shakes as it huffs out of his lungs. The rest of him shakes too. She finds herself breathing hard and running hot as well.

"Lord Ashencourt, you look a mess." He really does. Face flushed, hair in disarray, clothes rumpled and marred with dirt and small grass stains. He is on the floor and she is above him and she feels _powerful_.

"I _feel_ a mess, Lady Averly." His words make her grin as she kneels behind his head.

"Here, allow me," she says before gently twining her fingers into his hair. It's softer than she'd ever thought it would be. His breath catches in his throat as her slender fingers comb carefully through his hair, setting to rights all the places it had become mussed. She eases him into sitting upright with a hand at his back, and can feel her heart almost skip a beat at the soft noise that comes out of him when she does. _Almost_. She grabs one of her own ribbons from her nightstand and ties his hair with that.

She brushes him off as best she can without getting _too_ improper (if that's even possible anymore, really), and then finally gets around to putting her shirt on.

"I'm decent now, you can look again," she says. His soft hazel eyes turn to her and drink her in.

"So," she says, suddenly feeling much more uncertain.

" _So_ ," he says, still sitting on the floor and gazing up at her. "I don't suppose you'd mind if I came to call on you again? Er, sometime soon."

"I don't believe I would mind," she says. "As long as you don't make a complete mess of yourself again."

"I believe that's up to you, Lady Averly," he says as he gets to his feet. She suppresses a very unladylike grin.

"Good day, Lord Ashencourt. Oh, and the washroom is the next door on the left."

He sees himself out and the door of her room clicks shut behind him. She stops suppressing that unladylike grin, and it takes over her whole face.


End file.
